Shuteye Shenanigans
by Ayakae
Summary: John Watson has never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Never ever ever. And never will, thank you very much. Well, there was that one time, but John didn't count that. It was completely different, just like the second time it happened. And the third. And the fourth. Epic bromance, but it can be read as pre-slash if you wish.
1. Introduction

**Hello, there! This isn't the first piece of fanfiction that I've written, but it's the first one for Sherlock. And the first multi-chapter one, it seems. I hope this doesn't destroy the creative beauty that is _Sherlock _which, by the way, was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, adapted by Moftiss and licensed by BBC.**

* * *

John Hamish Watson never did feel comfortable whenever people talked about him. He was very aware that there will never be a shortage of people who do. John knew exactly what they (and by they, he means the local detectives at New Scotland Yard and overeager journalists) were talking about – his relationship with his flatmate was far from ordinary, and he also knew that the bond he had with Sherlock was far stronger than the bonds brothers or sisters had with each other.

How strong the bond between said flatmate and the British Government is completely irrelevant.

So if one ever questioned his sexuality and whether or not he slept with Sherlock Holmes, he or she would get (along with an exasperated glare and/or a quick eye-roll) a quick negative response from the former RAMC Captain.

John Watson had never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Never ever ever. And never will, thank you very much.

…

Well, there _was_ that one time, but John didn't count that. It was completely different, just like the second time it happened. And the third. And the fourth.

All of them didn't count; John Watson would _gladly_ attest to all of the aforementioned events to prove his heterosexuality (provided that anyone ever found out about them).


	2. The First Time

**I hope this doesn't end up too OOC. Still don't own it! Neither Brit-picked nor beta'd.**

* * *

The first time it happened, Sherlock had just recently come back from his three-year hiatus (dubbed 'The Great Depression' by Mycroft Holmes who was just as dramatic as his brother was). After a vicious embrace and a hard punch to the face, the routine between Sherlock and John ended up being the way it used to be before the fall. Sherlock once again solved murder cases with John hot on his heels, and the latter was more than grateful at a chance to feel the inevitable adrenaline rush again.

That didn't stop the nightmares, however.

After Sherlock's faked death, John had gotten nightmares about that fateful day at St. Bartholomew's. Each one was a little different from the others – there were times when Sherlock cruelly blamed his imminent death on the man, times when Sherlock was forcibly pushed off the edge, Moriarty's horrid laughter ringing in the background, and times when Sherlock jumped off the building alone without John – but it all ended up the same way. Sherlock Holmes with his head cracked and bloodied against the pavement, and his flatmate with nothing he could've done to stop him.

John Watson harboured that guilt for three years, unable to move on because of the torture his memories put him through every night.

So when John woke up suddenly at the middle of the night from another one of his nightmares, he was barely surprised – rather resigned. Waking up shivering and shaking because of anything _but_ the cool temperature, John futilely wiped the sweat off of his weary face. He took deep breaths to calm himself down.

_In, out. In, out. In, out. In_ –

John spottted a silhouette near the doorway. He had gotten so used to being isolated that the idea of another person living with him was almost foreign to him.

"John?" Sherlock said, unusually hesitant. The detective took a hesitant step towards his friend. He was wearing a white t-shirt and pyjama pants, his blue silk robe wrapped loosely around his lanky frame. John wondered how long Sherlock had been awake and if he'd been watching this entire time.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John slurred, still taking deep breaths.

"You had a nightmare."

"That's _fantastic_ detective work right there, Sherlock."

Sherlock offered a flicker of a feeble smile. He was standing at the foot of John's bed now, shuffling from one foot to another. John had never seen Sherlock so unsure of himself.

"John, I just want you to know again how terribly sorry I am for putting you through all of... that. I never – I didn't – I wasn't expecting you to go through so much over my death. I knew that my leaving would protect you and keep you safe, but I never could have imagined how my death would affect you emotionally," Sherlock looked down. "You know as well as I do I'm not good with emotions."

"Just shut up about it, Sherlock. Just stop. There's no use reminding ourselves of that, eh? And you need to stop apologizing," John replied. He gave Sherlock a meaningful look, hoping that the consulting detective wouldn't take his words the wrong way. He added, "I forgave you the second I finished hearing your explanation, but I'm still angry with you."

Sherlock looked visibly relieved, giving John one of his rare, genuine smiles. It was a smile John would never get tired of seeing. It's small and shy - only a bare upwards curl of his lips - but it meant a lot to John.

"I've never had someone miss me so much before," Sherlock said. "It felt… nice."

"I mourned you for three consecutive years and you say it's _nice_?" John said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. Men never talked about _feelings_.

"I have a reputation to uphold," Sherlock sniffed, catching on to his dark humour. The look they exchange ended up being too much, and they end up giggling like girls, reminiscent of the laugh they shared after their first chase around London. Sherlock was now seated on the other side of John's bed, facing John with a leg propped up in front of him. The laughter died down.

"I'm still getting used to the fact that you're here, quite frankly – my best friend, here in the flesh. I begged for a miracle and that's what I got." John pondered. "Maybe I should go to church more often."

"I doubt worshipping red wine and yeastless bread would give you more favours compared to those who don't," Sherlock interrupted. "Wouldn't you rather solve cases with me?"

"I was _joking_, you prat."

They fall into a comfortable silence. It lasted a few minutes before the consulting detective spoke up.

"Do you want to tell me what happened in your nightmare?"

The question was abruptly asked and took John by surprise, robbing him of his ability to speak. He looked at Sherlock, feeling slightly uncomfortable as his blue-green-grey eyes bore into his own. John saw a hint of uncertainty within its depths, and realized that Sherlock had been refraining himself from asking that question for a long while.

"Don't normal people talk about their feelings with their friends?" Sherlock queried after his flatmate remained silent. _Isn't this what Molly used to try and make me do during my hiding?_

_Well, we're not exactly normal, are we?_ John thought. He regained his voice. "You know, the usual. You die, I watch. This time I was there with you and you were reaching for my hand. I couldn't get to you on time and watched you fall from above."

Sherlock was silent; he was contemplating what his flatmate had just told him. _How is this information supposed to help me help John? How do therapists earn so much from this? _Sherlock desperately searched for a reply to the statement before coming up fruitless. He resorted to moving on. "You were calling my name."

"Yes, well, that's what you do when you're worried for your friends, Sherlock. Call out names, hoping they'll reply and tell you they're fine," John answered, stifling a yawn. He's suddenly tired again but was unwilling to succumb to slumber for fear of facing another vision of dead Sherlock.

"You should rest. I'll be right here beside you if you have another nightmare," Sherlock ordered gently. John heard a touch of concern amidst his flatmate's baritone voice.

John thought about those three years without his flatmate – not seeing any experiments on the table; opening the fridge to find food and no body parts whatsoever; having talks with Mrs. Hudson that almost always ended up awkward because the subject of Sherlock almost always seemed to intrude.; suffering looks from sniffy people who thought he was crazy for still believing in a psychopath.

Loading his Browning and thinking about pulling the trigger.

They were years of absolute loneliness that John never wanted to experience again, and suddenly the doctor didn't want to be alone that night - just for that night. John wanted to feel his best friend's presence beside him.

"Would you mind sleeping with me, Sherlock?" John asked. On other occasions he would've explained that he hadn't meant it that way, but tonight he was just exhausted. John patted the unused side of the bed, and was quite happy when Sherlock obliged and clambered under the sheets.

"Thank you," John whispered, allowing himself to slowly drift away. He could feel Sherlock's warmth beside him, telling him to have a peaceful sleep for the first time in a very, very long time. His hand reached out to clasp Sherlock's wrist, feeling the blood pulsing beneath his fingers.

"Anything," Sherlock replied simply.

* * *

**Oh, my. You're reading this author's note, which means you've read the entire story! Huzzah, it's not too bad, then.**

**Reviews are welcome! They really are. :)**


	3. The Second Time

**Mark Gatiss just tweeted me. MARK GATISS JUST TWEETED ME. ****_MARK FUCKING GATISS JUST TWEETED ME._**

**Here's how our first meeting went, basically:**

**_Me: _**_If BBC had a show called 'Mycroft' what would it be about?  
__**Him:**__ Mycroft, presumably._

***facepalm***

**He's such a troll and I love him so much, I cannot. You do not understand how happy I am. ;_;**

**Oh, and for any of you _fuckers_ who think I'm an idiot because _"duh, a Mycroft show would be all about Mycroft!"_, I was expecting a _little_ (lots) more than that (duh). Keep the name-calling to yourselves, eh?  
**

**But anyway, I'm still happy enough to celebrate, so I decided to post another chapter, hooray! I wasn't supposed to post this yet since I would have liked to get the fourth chapter done before posting this, but ****_MARK FUCKING GATISS JUST TWEETED ME._**** At this point, I don't really care anymore! ^_^**

**Sorry for the long author's note. Neither Brit-picked nor beta'd. Still don't own it.**

* * *

Sherlock prided himself at being detached from his emotions. It was very efficient solving crimes without having to worry about life and death. The less emotions he allowed in his mind palace, the better.

However, there _was_ something so irksome that it knocked down the walls of his carefully-constructed walls without any effort; something so irrational and bothersome that it brought out a particularly unwanted emotion of Sherlock's to the surface.

Thunder.

Sherlock Holmes was afraid of thunder, and unfortunately for him, thunder was England's best friend.

He had had the fear for it since he was a child. Every thunderstorm in his childhood consisted of Sherlock hiding underneath the blankets, covering his ears and crying for the thunder to stop. Thunder made it hard for Sherlock to think properly, and he vaguely remembered begging Mycroft to keep him company, because Mycroft was his big brother and he wasn't afraid of anything. The memories of eating tomato soup and grilled cheese, watching reruns of Doctor Who on the telly and reading adventurous pirate stories came to Sherlock's mind. They were things the brothers used to do during a thunderstorm. After all that, when the inevitable curfew arrived and the Holmes' had to go to sleep, the pair of them would climb into Mycroft's bed and sleep together – Mycroft protecting Sherlock from the big, bad thunder and Sherlock listening to the sound of his brother's heartbeat.

Sherlock would never admit to missing his big brother sometimes.

Of course, Sherlock didn't have Mycroft to help him out this time. He _could_ if he asked the hidden camera on the mantle by the skull nicely, but he wasn't going to go down _that_ far over a rapid change of temperature. Mycroft wasn't his own personal _teddy bear _despite his noticeable weight gain.

But Sherlock wanted to sleep, goddamn it. His mind had been whirring on and on for four consecutive days working to solve a rather intriguing case about a serial killer on the Tube and was now completely exhausted.

Sherlock sulked. He wished the impending thunderstorm would go away. The thunder hadn't started yet, but Sherlock didn't need his deductive skills to know that it would come very, very soon.

The hidden camera was starting to look very tempting now.

Then it clicked.

_John._

The revelation jostled Sherlock from his position on the couch. He had been previously lying motionless across it, hands steepled under his chin, but his head was now swivelling around trying to find his flatmate, body still in the same position.

His eyes scanned the clock on the other side of the room – 2AM. _John must be asleep._

Sherlock wondered if John would allow him to sleep on his bed for that night. He hadn't done this in a long while, sleeping with someone during a thunderstorm. He and John have been flatmates for a little under five years now, but former was always awake when thunderstorms came.

_We've slept together before. This wouldn't be any different, _Sherlock mused. With that in mind, he gracefully got up from the couch (how he rested on it for a long time whilst avoiding back pain was anybody's guess) and headed for the stairs.

He could hear the distant rumblings of the thunder now and trod faster up the stairs. Sherlock reached the top. He was minutely surprised when the door opens with just a slight push of his hand. Sherlock quietly stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock turned around. If he wasn't surprised at the unlocked door, he certainly was surprised now. On the bed looking adorably cute (not that Sherlock would ever say that) sat John Watson, eyes blearily looking up at him from under mussed up hair.

"Thunderstorm," John said, as if that was sufficient enough to explain everything. He shifted himself a tiny bit to the right, making more space for Sherlock beside him. John patted his bed to invite him over and then moved to lie back down against the pillow.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Mycroft texted me," John replied, showing Sherlock the text.

_Don't be surprised if Sherlock  
sleeps with you tonight. He's  
rather terrified of thunder. A  
bit of a warning, he's a bit of  
a kicker during storms._

_Mycroft_

Sherlock bristled and hissed, "I am not _terrified_ of thunder! I simply do not like it."

John didn't respond, too exhausted to make fun of this new piece of information. He closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock to drop down beside him.

Sherlock felt grateful and relieved as he took off his shoes and robe. He was grateful because John didn't make fun of him (the solar system incident was still fresh in his mind) and relieved because he didn't have to sleep alone tonight.

He slipped under the duvet and promptly started to sleep on top of John. The latter goes still as a rock.

"Sherlock?" John inquired slowly.

"Yes?" said Sherlock, equally as slowly.

"Are you _cuddling_ me?"

"Yes, of course. What does it look like I'm doing?"

Sherlock stared at him. John stared right back.

"Okay, then," John answered finally. Sherlock stared at him confusedly for a little while longer before dropping his head down on John's chest again.

As Sherlock's breaths started to even out, John started envisioning Sherlock as a child. A curious little boy, maybe, with a mop of dark and unruly curls. He'd have a wooden sword and a pirate's hat, running around the mansion (Sherlock certainly looked rich with his fashionable choice of clothing) playing with his brother. Oddly enough, John could only imagine child Mycroft as a shorter version of himself complete with the suit and tie. Maybe he was born with it?

John had to remind himself that Sherlock was human, and that humans all have a fear of something. For Sherlock it was thunder. He then imagined Sherlock and Mycroft on the same bed listening to the rain pattering down the windows, the former feeling protected in the arms of his big brother.

"Stop thinking, I can hear you thinking. It's annoying. You're going to wake up the whole street," Sherlock whined. A roar of thunder suddenly echoed throughout the room, and his grip around John grew infinitesimally tighter.

John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. He certainly didn't mind a glimpse of Sherlock's past, even if it was the middle of the night.

"Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well."

The thunder roared. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

* * *

**I love Sherlock's human side. I hope it didn't get ****_too_**** OOC. *cringes***

**Reviews are lovely! Even just a tiny review is enough. Please? :)**


	4. The Third Time I

**Hello! So this is the next chapter of the story. I honestly didn't expect it to end up this long; I have to separate them into two chapters, actually. It was supposed to be within one chapter but then I got an idea and went, "****_ooh, what happens if I do this?_****" and it just blew out of proportion. Ho hum.**

**Something I noticed while I was writing; I often switch between the present tense and the past tense for some reason. I hope it doesn't bother anyone. I've been trying to make it consistent.**

**And another thing I should probably mention: I've been to England and experienced life in London for two weeks (it was amazing, thanks for asking), so I ****_kind of _****know some aspects of the British life. It doesn't mean it's entirely Brit-picked, though!**

**Special thanks to the lovely ****_virginger _****for being a great beta. Still don't own Sherlock. On with the story!**

* * *

"Here you go, sir – your keys and your breakfast cards. Breakfast starts at seven-thirty and ends at ten o'clock. Do you have any questions?"

John looked at the hotel receptionist. She was very pretty; her auburn hair was tied back into a ponytail and her large, sparkling blue eyes complemented her tiny mouth. Wanda, her nametag said. John wondered if he could manage to snag a date from her.

John tried to charm her with a smile. "No, that's fine. Thanks."

"Great! Enjoy the honeymoon with your husband, then," Wanda replied in a chipper tone.

_Wait, what? _John blurted out, "Honeymoon?"

"Oh, goodness! I shouldn't have said that out loud." Wanda looked rather sheepish as she covered her mouth, but the damage had already been done. "It was supposed to be a surprise!"

"A _surprise_?" John breathed out, taken aback by the sudden turn of events.

Wanda looked guiltier than before, shaking her head and looking anywhere but John. "Yes, sir. Your husband said that you skipped out on your honeymoon last year, so he decided to reserve the honeymoon suite for the both of you. Oh, I hope I didn't ruin it!"

"_Honeymoon suite?!_"

"What seems to be the problem here?"

John turned around to see Sherlock eyeing the receptionist, presumably making deductions from what her real hair color was to what she had for dinner the other night. Greeted with silence, he exasperatedly looked at John. _Well? Answer me!_

John tightly answered his question with another one. "The receptionist tells me that you reserved the honeymoon suite for us, Sherlock?"

A switch turned on in Sherlock's brain, and suddenly John could see no sign of his flatmate anywhere. "Oh, no. Did the receptionist give it away, sweetheart?"

"_Sweetheart?_" John mimed, no actual sound coming out.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Holmes. It just slipped!" Wanda apologized profusely.

Sherlock gave what seemed to be a huff of disappointment before giving her a kind (and fake, John knew that for a fact) smile. Sherlock turning from a sociopath to a seemingly normal person still gave John the creeps. Sherlock spoke up. "It can happen to anyone, I suppose. Besides, I'm sure my husband appreciates the warning. He never did like surprises; I don't know why I chose to keep this from him."

Sherlock smiled warmly at John and cupped his cheek for a moment.

"Yes, I wonder why," John gritted out.

"See? He understands," Sherlock told the receptionist, who looked visibly relieved. Sherlock picked the keys and cards up and nodded to John. "Come along, now, love!"

With that, Sherlock turned around and headed straight for the elevators, coat flapping dramatically behind him.

Normally, John would have called the man back and flung his luggage onto his face, but John's attention was elsewhere. He mutely followed the consulting detective, seething at what he had done. When he reached the waiting elevator where Sherlock was already impatiently waiting, John simply stepped right in and waited for the doors to close before exploding.

Sherlock started to speak. "Press the button for the fourteenth flo – "

"Why the _hell_ would you do something like this?" John yelled at Sherlock angrily, slamming his finger down to the button marked '14'.

"I would've thought that the answer would have been obvious, John. We're undercover. Tesco's Terror only murders homosexual couples."

"_Yes_, Sherlock. At _Tesco's_. Not hotels. There's a difference!"

"We've got to make ourselves look believable as possible. That's the point of _being undercover_."

"And the honeymoon suite, _darling_?"

"It's a big room, I liked it. Plus it adds to the cover!"

John felt like slapping his own forehead. "And the story about us was just for giggles?"

"It would've been odd if I had been the only one in the room. People would talk. Besides, it would be more convenient for the both of us. What if I had a revelation at the middle of the night, and you weren't there to see it? We'd be losing valuable time!" Sherlock looked at John, brows furrowed. "I don't understand why you're so angry, John. It's not like we haven't slept together before."

"Those were _different_, Sherlock."

"How were they any different to what we will be doing? I don't mind doing it; _you _certainly didn't mind it the last time. Same thing, different circumstances. The both of us on the same bed, me sleeping peacefully and you snoring like a jackhammer."

John was offended. "I do not _snore_. And what do you _mean_ I didn't mind it the last time? You hogged all the covers!"

"John, I – "

_Ding!_

John looked angrily at Sherlock, exhaling through his nose as the elevator doors opened.

Sherlock shuffled from the elevator as if the outburst never happened, leaving his luggage with John yet again.

_Beep!_

_I'm expecting a wedding  
invitation by the end of  
the week._

_Mycroft_

"Oh, piss off, Mycroft!" John snarled, aiming his scathing look at the elevator camera. He grabbed the luggage with a little more force than necessary and stalked after Sherlock.

When John had reached the hallway where their room was, Sherlock was already at the other end opening the door. John could see Sherlock sliding the card in, waiting for the green light and pushing the door open.

A moment's pause, and then a shout. "Look, John! Rose petals!"

"Oh, for _fuck's sake_…"

* * *

"I strongly discourage you to sleep on the floor, John."

"That's rich coming from a guy who doesn't do what I tell him to do."

John groaned as another burst of pain shot through him. After four hours of pretending to be a couple at the nearby Tesco's (John, sweetie, that's bad for your cholesterol), John and Sherlock had caught the man red-handed as he tried to strangle the detective. John then had suffered an injury whilst the pair of them were pursuing the killer – an injury that was never going to go away for a very long time.

A sigh. "I'm serious, John. You got hit by a car – a slow one, thank God for that – but it still hit you hard enough on the back to cause some damage. Didn't you see how hard the car hit you?"

"No, Sherlock, I was too busy being in _pain_ to notice." A pause. "Here's a great idea, why don't _you_ sleep on the floor and _I_ sleep on the bed?"

"Pah!" Sherlock snorted. He gave the doctor his customary you-are-an-idiot glare (or, in other words, his normal glare). "You already know the answer to that, John."

"It was worth a shot." John shrugged; he winced in pain as he felt the muscles of his back contract in protest. Sherlock moved forward, not really doing anything but sitting beside his friend and waiting for his pain to subside.

The pain went away. Then a beat. "I can get you some painkillers?"

John looked at him. "You'd do that?"

"If you slept on the bed, yes."

John stared at him through narrowed eyes before he finally relented. He stood up from the floor, picking up the blankets and pillows he had been planning on using for his makeshift bed. "Just so you know, Sherlock, if I hadn't gotten clumsy and spilled my tea on the sofa in the main room, I wouldn't be doing this. And even if there hadn't been a sofa, I would've slept on the floor."

"You shouldn't have gotten hit by that car then," Sherlock retorted, but he looked contented as John wobbled to the large bed, dropping the piles of linen. The petals on top of the bed earlier were now occupying the litter bin outside, courtesy of John.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock smirked as he left the room.

From his position, John heard a zip, a thud, some rustling, another thud and zip, a clink, a squeak, the flowing of water, and then another squeak before Sherlock came back into the room. The consulting detective gave the doctor two pills and a glass of water. John accepted them gratefully and swallowed them down.

"Thank you."

"No problem," Sherlock replied, moving to the other side of the bed and lying down unceremoniously. He stared at the ceiling, occasionally glancing at his flatmate.

"So," John said, hating the silence. It had been going on for a long while. "Are you planning on sleeping yet? I can't; I'm still coming down from this adrenaline rush."

"Hm, maybe later." Sherlock uttered boredly in reply.

"So what do you plan on doing, then? We can't simply sit here for the next two or three hours staring at the ceiling."

"I can think of a couple of things I can do, but none of them involve you and all of them consist of blowing something up."

John glares at him warningly.

"Oh, stop your worrying, John. I'm not doing any of them," Sherlock said as he dramatically rolled his eyes. He continued on. "For shame, the things you do that hinder science! Honestly, John."

_Dear God, I'm living with an evil scientist_, John thought. He needed to think of something to do before Sherlock spontaneously combusted from boredom (which, when John thought about it, was something Sherlock would probably do if he had the chance).

"Tell me something about yourself that I don't know, then," John challenged.

Sherlock paused. "Something about myself?" he repeated slowly, as if he couldn't believe his flatmate was asking him that question.

John murmured in agreement. "I assume you know my whole life story by now; it's only fair for me to know _some_ of yours."

"That's not true," Sherlock replied almost mysteriously. "There are a lot of things I have yet to know about you, John Watson."

"Then that's decided, then!" John smiled. "For every question I ask you, you get to ask me one as well."

* * *

**Was this believable? OOC? No? Yes? What? Leave a review, please, I can't understand you. See what I did there? *waggles eyebrows***

**Before you ask, the original version of this chapter consisted of Sherlock giving John the pills and then falling asleep. This seemed much more fun (I can't believe I intended for this chapter to end so _pathetically_), and it gave me a chance to write John's point of view in the second installment of this, too!**

**I named the hotel receptionist after Benedict's mum. I'm creepy that way. *facepalm***

**Anywho, I'm still in the process of cleaning up second chapter, but it's already done. When to post it is an entirely different matter. Hum.**


	5. The Third Time II

**DID YOU GUYS SEE THE DOCTOR WHO FINALE?! I WAS HYPERVENTILATING DURING THE FIRST TEN SECONDS; THAT'S GOTTA BE A NEW RECORD. Why must you ****_torture_**** me this way, Moffat? ;(**

**But yeah, anyway.**

**Behold, the second installment of the fourth chapter! This was surprisingly fun to write - it was a pleasure thinking of backstories for these amazing characters.**

**Thank you, ****_virginger_****, for being a lovely beta. Not Brit-picked. I still don't own it, drat.**

* * *

By the time the clock chimed nine o' clock in the evening, the both of them were thoroughly engrossed in their conversation. They decided earlier on to get the serious topics out of the way first – John's time in Afghanistan, Sherlock's drug abuse, John's depression and Sherlock's time hunting the Moriarty syndicate. Now, the two of them contented themselves with asking the most random things they could, still staring at the stark, white ceiling.

"Who was your first Doctor from Doctor Who?" John asked. Sherlock seemed surprised, something which John was immensely (not that he'd ever show it to him) proud of. It took a lot to knock the consulting detective off balance. "Every time I watch it on the telly, you watch it with me."

"Peter Davison - the one with that ridiculous celery pinned onto his jacket. If I were to answer you technically, I'd say Tom Baker, but I only saw him on one episode before he regenerated," Sherlock answered.

The consulting detective cleared his throat. "Did you get into any trouble with your parents when you were a teenager?"

John chuckled. "Oh, yeah – loads of times. I used to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to meet up with a couple of mates, maybe even a girlfriend. God, I had a lot of them back in the day – girlfriends, I mean – I've forgotten almost all of them." Sherlock's eyebrows had risen at the word 'lot'. "I remember one time my mum went absolutely bonkers when she thought I had gotten a girl pregnant. Turns out she just had the flu, but she was furious for months. And don't get me _started_ on the drinking."

Sherlock had been expecting John to have been an obedient child; what his flatmate had told him took him aback slightly. "What changed?"

"Harry," John answered tonelessly, the name explaining what words couldn't. Memories ghosted around John's eyes. "We couldn't _both _be rebels. Do you get what I mean? When one turns bad, the other turns good – at least that's what I think."

Sherlock nodded and chose not to prod any further. John was thankful and eager to drag the tension out of the room.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" John waggled his eyebrows jokingly.

"I have, yes."

"_No_," John said, horrified to hear his voice sounding like that of a teenage girl's.

"It was an experiment," Sherlock explained, as if that should have been obvious to the blogger.

"How do you kiss a girl as an experiment?"

"Well, the girl who fancied me was my subject. She kept staring at me during class and it was highly unusual. And then I heard all this talk about girlfriends and boyfriends and the like and how '_positively amazing_' it was, and I realized that it was affecting her. I wanted to see how attraction changed the dynamics between two people and study the dopamine effect, so I experimented. I made a conclusion after a week and stopped talking to her."

John gaped at him, almost appalled. "Sherlock!"

"It was a long time ago."

"You can't just – "

"Next question!" Sherlock said, moving away from the conversation and John's inevitable nagging. "Did you have any pets growing up?"

"I had a dachshund named Hotdog."

Sherlock groaned. John grinned at the memory. "He was a short-haired one. Kept running around the room – he was literally insane. Hotdog died when I was thirteen, I think. The whole family mourned, and we even had this funeral service for him."

He struggled to find another question for Sherlock. "Okay, um. Hmm, favorite food?"

"That is a _pathetic_ question, John." Sherlock chided him.

"You barely eat!"

"It's insignificant information."

"It's not _insignificant_ if I can get you to eat more."

Sherlock grumbled but answered obediently. "Macaroni and cheese."

John visioned an image of baby Sherlock with a half-empty bowl of mac-n-cheese, the other half plastered stickily all over his face. He went over the ingredients for macaroni and cheese and added them to his mental shopping list. "Well, luckily for you, Sherlock, I've got just the recipe."

"Where'd you learn how to cook?"

John thought about all his efforts cooking a decent meal for themselves. He never really pulled the big guns – Sherlock ate next to nothing, and their constant motion around London never left any time for John to cook properly for himself, either. When he _did_ have the time to season and taste-test, though, he was a marvellous cook – something Sherlock had noticed and (begrudgingly) indulged in.

"My mum taught me when I was younger," John answered. "I think she meant to teach Harry, but Harry basically ran away from anything related to the kitchen. I used to protest, too, but then I grew fond of it. Still got her recipe book, in fact, and she made the best mac-n-cheese."

"Ah," said Sherlock, feigning nonchalance.

"Tell me about your first friend," John asked after a moment.

"Do I look like I had any friends in my childhood, John?"

"Not even one?" John queried incredulously.

"Not one," Sherlock confirmed. "I'm a sociopath, John, what do you expect?"

"That can't possibly be true, Sherlock, there must have been at least one. Anyone you've met once? Someone who made your day by playing with you just _that one time_?"

Sherlock looked deep within his mind palace, quickly rifling through the memories. He suddenly remembered a flash of bright sunlight, the feel of cool, river water and the sound of somebody else's laughter – a boy.

"There _was_ someone – a boy. I remember now. We were in Hetfordshire visiting my mum's parents. I was sitting by the pond beside the house." Sherlock's eyes turned glossy as he relived the memory. It darkened. "I went there because Mycroft was too busy _studying_ to play with me.

"I _think_ I was sad or sulking - he came up to me and asked me why my face was all funny. 'Are you mad at the ducks? What have they done?' I don't know what happened after that. I found out his name was Victor Trevor and then we just started playing in the water. My clothes were soaked through. We parted ways at nightfall since I could hear the nanny screaming for me – I think she was a banshee, she was dreadful – and I told the boy to meet me tomorrow and play again. I'd forgotten that we were leaving early the next day. I never saw him again, and that was that." Sherlock finished his tale.

John inwardly smiles. _At least his whole childhood wasn't all that lonely._

"Can I ask you something, John?"

The doctor realized that this question was going to be different. He could sense Sherlock's discomfort. "Well, it _is_ your turn. Go ahead."

"Why do you put up with me? Why are you still here after all I've done to you?" Sherlock asks him, confused. John felt a pang as he took in his flatmate's lost face, as if him asking this question was going to send his friend away.

Sherlock Holmes was by far the most brilliant man John had the pleasure of ever meeting. He observed things others didn't, turning these pieces of information into life and form. He calculated and rationalized events in speeds John can only dream of imagining, and while Sherlock could've used this to a bigger advantage and go further in life, he chose instead to help people.

_The brain of a scientist or a philosopher, _John remembered Mycroft telling him. _What might we deduce about his heart?_

That question was fairly easy. His heart was there – a lot of people assumed that he was a cold man, incapable of feeling any emotion whatsoever, but that was far from true. John had seen it - seen the fear in Sherlock's eyes as he stared down Jim Moriarty; the brokenness Sherlock had experienced after the "death" of the Woman; the pride he had felt when he cured John of his psychosomatic limp. It was there, it was all there, and John was proud to say that he knew the Sherlock Holmes everybody else didn't. His heart may not be that of a caring man, but that was what John Watson was there for – to remind him that it was there, beating beneath his ribcage.

Simply put, Sherlock was amazing. He gave John a sense of direction (albeit a wonky and dangerous one) and provided him with the companionship and adrenaline that he had so desperately sought for after his military discharge.

John was never bored.

"I need you," John replied. He thinks he can never fully explain how much Sherlock means to him. Sherlock gave him a genuine smile that made him beam in return.

"And I, you."

Warmth spreads through John's heart. "Right then, my turn…"

* * *

By the time the clock chimed one o' clock in the morning, the both of them were peacefully asleep.

* * *

**...and the fourth chapter officially ends. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Do you want to lick it? (I don't know where that came from.)  
Leave a review. *gives you a Mycroft glare with a slice of cake***

**And in case anyone's interested:**

**a.) Victor Trevor is actually canon! ACD claims him to be the only friend Sherlock Holmes made in college.**

**b.) I'm planning to write an actual case-story for this, but I'm not entirely sure I can be through with it before school starts.**

**c.) Also planning to write more of these question-and-answers. I don't know, maybe? Should I?**

**d.) Did I mention how fun it was to write this? All the possibilities...**


	6. The Fourth Time

**SO I JUST STARTED WATCHING SUPERNATURAL AND I AM SCARED SHITLESS I LOVE IT ALREADY.**

**AND I JUST WATCHED STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS OH MY GOD BENEDICT DEAR GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD  
(the lovely simon pegg gets a special mention as well)**

**Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. I don't own Sherlock, but Sherlock owns me. (Ohoho, that sounded ****_nice_****. c;)**

* * *

John had been out of the flat for approximately nine minutes and forty-three seconds doing the shopping before Sherlock had sent him a text that made his blood grow cold.

_I may have done  
something._

_- SH_

John instantly knew that whatever he'd done had caused some damage (to the flat _and_ quite possibly Mrs. Hudson's sanity), and the soldier hurriedly flurried from the store into the heat of the boiling sun before his idiotic flatmate could do any more damage.

When he arrived at the flat, John needed only two seconds to know _exactly_ what Sherlock had done wrong.

The couch was a complete and utter mess, to put it nicely. The cushions were slashed and stabbed multiple times by presumably a sharp edge, the wool spilling out of it like blood from a wound. Underneath them laid a cadaver of a pig, its skin scarred by stab wounds as well, though not as deep as the cushions. It seemed that Sherlock had knifed the pig with the cushions on the way.

"_What the bloody hell did you do to the couch?_"

His shout rudely pulled Sherlock out of his trance. "What? Oh, that." Sherlock barely spared a glance at it, as if just looking at it was capable of boring him to death. He rolled his eyes. "Lestrade texted me twelve minutes ago about a murder case. All I had to do was find out what kind of knife was used to stab the victim and I had the killer. Lestrade _should_ be apprehending him by now." Sherlock checked his watch. "But I highly doubt with the combined lack of intellect from the idiots of Scotland Yard that they can get him before he moves out of his flat."

Sherlock gives John a once-over. "You've been out."

"Yes, you sod, I was out shopping before you sent me a text about _this_." He gestured toward the pitiful-looking piece of furniture. John added this sarcastically. "Thanks for the warning, though."

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but John caught on to it. The detective averted his gaze away from John's. Was it just him, or did Sherlock look slightly worried? "I didn't text you about that; I was talking about something completely different."

"Wait, hold on. Are you saying that _this isn't it_?" John queried, gesturing to the couch. He looked disgustedly at the corpse, peppered with a mixture of wool and stab wounds.

Sherlock made no sound, choosing instead to ignore him and resume staring out the window. John gave him a stern look, waiting for Sherlock to comment, but he remained stubbornly adamant and refused to say any more.

John sighed. He picked at his slightly dampened shirt – the sweat had gotten into it with all the running and the climate. Shaking his head, John turned around and headed for the stairs. _Might as well get changed to something more comfortable before I clean up his mess. Like I always do._

The first thing he noticed when he got inside his room was that his mattress and all of his pillows, linens and blankets were on the floor. To his horror and disbelief, the second thing he noticed was that the bed he was _absolutely certain_ was where it usually was before he had last seen it was now glued firmly to the ceiling.

"_SHERLOCK!_"

* * *

"You know, I'm starting to think you enjoy making me mad," John told Sherlock angrily. He fluffed his pillow like a boxer would with a punching bag. The former humbly remained silent as his friend finished his rant. "And what's worse is that _I'm _the one who _always_ fixes your messes."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting an imminent headache. Sherlock never ceased to surprise him. He supposed that that feature of his was a good thing if he actually bothered to clean up for himself once in a while. The soldier would have gone on longer and continued to nag at the consulting detective, but he was dead tired from the cleaning and wanted to take a nap.

Sherlock, unbelievably, was still standing inside the room. Since the detective barely slept there, anyway, John took it upon himself to steal his bed – after all, Sherlock was the reason he didn't have a bed at all. Normally, Sherlock would have been gone by now, tired and bored of the usual rant coming out of his flatmate's mouth. Tonight, he was being unusually patient and attentive – a feat John would have normally taken advantage of – but John was simply too exhausted to do anything like that. Instead, the doctor chose to relax against Sherlock's bed which smelled of newspapers and oranges for some reason only Sherlock knew about.

'Shut the door before you leave' was the last thing John had said before slowly succumbing to sleep.

Sherlock did as he was told and shut the door. He remained motionless as he listened to the sound of his flatmate's breathing even out before he stalked off in the direction of the kitchen.

When he arrived, Sherlock perused the cupboards and drawers for the tools he knew were there. After some time (and a rather delightful rediscovery of the toenail-yoghurt experiment he thought he had lost a long time ago), Sherlock found a Swiss knife, a ball of yarn, a chisel and a jar of light-brown substance.

There was a job to be done.

* * *

By the time Sherlock was done putting the bed back onto the floor and arranging the linens, he was completely exhausted as well. The tedious job had made his body slick with a thin sheet of sweat, and he had suffered multiple rope-burns from the yarn. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and rest his head.

He dumped the tools into the first cupboard he could find before heading for the bathroom. After a quick shower, he gave himself a great, big yawn, opening the doors to his bedroom where John was in a deep sleep.

His head had barely hit the pillow before Sherlock followed suit.

* * *

**Hello again! This chapter seems lacking, but it's only because another chapter's gonna come after this. ****Think of it as one of those two-parters from Doctor Who – two different titles but both connected. The first "episode" (aka this one) is the actual fourth time Sherlock and John slept together; the next one is, well, spoilers. I hope you get my logic. I'd make a horrible professor. *facepalm***


	7. Aftermath I

**Voila, everybody, Chapter 6! I promised another chapter and I gave it. This is related to the chapter before this, by the way.**

_**Do you know how hard it was for me to write Lestrade? **_**Mrs. Hudson was fine, and so were Donovan and Anderson, but _Lestrade_? I hope I did him some justice.**

**Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. Moftiss own Sherlock and gallons and gallons of fangirl tears.**

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, like John, had had a day that started out quite normally before it turned sour. It had all started when he was woken up quite abruptly by his mobile phone at five AM that morning.

_"Terribly sorry to bother you so early in the morning, Inspector, but we've got a murder scene," stated the operator. "It's on Warren Street, sir, the LSE Carr-Saunders Hall."_

_Lestrade ran a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Couldn't them plonkers commit the crimes at a normal time? "Alright, I'm on my way."_

He did what was normal after that – he took a shower, did a quick shave, splashed on some cologne and got dressed for the day before hopping on to his car for the crime scene.

When Lestrade arrived at the dormitory, several members of the forensics team were already there taking fingerprints and evidence. They were all inside a dormitory room housing a rather gruesome corpse half-hidden under a mattress. Sergeant Sally Donovan stood to the side monitoring them while questioning plausible suspects.

Lestrade looked closer and noticed that Sally looked a little uptight. Her face was the very definition of a disgusted grimace, and several times he caught her barking at the witnesses harsher than she normally would. It only took Lestrade two looks between Donovan and Anderson to make the connection.

They were having a lovers' quarrel.

"Ah, Christ, not this again," muttered Lestrade. The last time this occurred, Anderson had gotten so angry he messed up the evidence. Donovan was deliciously smug about that mistake; she was so smug, in fact, that she had completely skimmed through all the key points during the entire case and made a mess of it.

Lestrade practically ended up _begging_ for Sherlock's involvement.

The chief superintendent was livid once the case was wrapped up, of course. He was humiliated that Sherlock Holmes had had to come and solve the case in less than ten seconds flat while Donovan and Anderson went around squabbling about everything in particular and forgetting about the case. It seemed that the grudge the chief superintendent had on the consulting detective would never really go away despite the high crime-solving rate he brought to the NSY.

He then _kindly_ went on to say that the entire incident was all Lestrade's fault and that he needed to fix his "faulty" leadership skills.

Well, that wasn't fair. It wasn't Lestrade's fault his entire team consisted of idiots, was it?

Lestrade went to hell and back that particular day.

It was a wonder he was still sane, actually, so when he had made the horrific connection that morning, Lestrade tried to latch onto what remained of his sanity before imminently losing it before 7 AM.

"Inspector, I think I got something!" Anderson said. Donovan stopped talking to a panicky student and glared at him. Lestrade could see her opening her mouth to make an insult, the sergeant shutting it quickly when he gave her a warning glance.

Lestrade looked up to the heavens. "God, help me now."

* * *

"For God's sake, the both of you! Will you stop arguing long enough to take this case seriously?" Lestrade all but shouted. He felt like a primary school teacher reprimanding two squabbling children. Donovan and Anderson stared at him, all the while slowly sitting down. They had both stood up at the heat of their argument.

The three of them whipped their heads at the sound of Lestrade's office door opening. David McAvoy, the chief superintendent, waddled in. "You have any leads, Inspector?"

"I have some, but I doubt they'll lead to anything," Lestrade replied, all the while glaring at Anderson and Donovan. They both had the decency to stop fighting in front of the boss' boss.

"And why is that, Inspector?" David drawled out.

'Well, Chief, if these two _morons_ would just stop fighting for five minutes, we might have had a lead by now' was what Lestrade wanted to say, but he decided to give a safer answer instead. "We're trying our best, sir," he admitted.

"It's hard when we have nothing to go on, sir," piped up Anderson, frustrated. "The evidence we have is insufficient."

"What do you mean by that? There must be something!" retorted David. Lestrade could feel the already aching pound in his head gradually becoming stronger. The chief superintendent looked at Sergeant Donovan, hoping that she could provide something useful.

"The leads I've found are all dead ends. I looked through all her phone records, her receipts, her bills and her schedule; there's nothing unusual in them. Interrogation yielded nothing, either," Sally said.

"Oh, come off it!" David admonished. "Sherlock Holmes has solved cases like this with less evidence, hasn't he? Surely you lot can do it."

"Yeah, well, we're not murderers," Donovan muttered under her breath.

That was the final straw. "You shut your mouth, Donovan!" Lestrade barked. The subject in question looked up so quickly at the sound of her boss's angry shout. She was flabbergasted; never had she seen Lestrade lose his temper like this. Anderson looked ready to defend his on-and-off girlfriend; they always bonded over their hatred for the consulting detective.

"Lestrade!" spluttered David.

"I am terribly sorry, sir, but I have had a bad morning," explained Lestrade, applying a seething undertone he made sure Donovan and Anderson caught.

"Yes, well, put that anger into this case, alright?" David said, still in shock over the inspector's outburst. He seemed hesitant before adding, "And as much as I hate saying this, Lestrade, but ring up Sherlock Holmes. I'd like this bastard behind bars as soon as possible. The press are starting to get a hold of it."

He took one last look at all of them before heading out of the room. As soon as David left, Sally started speaking. "Sir, I – "

"Need I remind you, Sally, that three years ago, you were certain Sherlock kidnapped those children. He didn't. You saw it yourself; you were one of those who _ruined him_. There's a difference between doubting a person and spreading vicious rumours about them, Sally. Then Sherlock came back and proved you and Anderson wrong. Moriarty _was_ real, but you didn't _listen_ to Sherlock because _he_ can do _your_ job better than the both of you combined. That's gotta be enough evidence that he's not the deranged psychopathic murderer that you lot seem to believe, eh? Now, I suggest that you _get back to work _and refrain from pissing me off again. Are we clear?" Lestrade's voice was low, dangerous and shaky from anger.

"Yes, sir." Donovan and Anderson answered in small voices, standing up and heading for the open door.

As they walked out, Donovan hesitated and turned towards Lestrade, but he was already busy dialling an all too familiar number. Her breath caught in her throat, but she was too abashed to say any more. She turned around and followed Anderson quietly.

Lestrade would've been an idiot if he hadn't noticed Donovan's behaviour at the doorway, but that was the least of his problems that moment. He had a killer to catch.

He put his mobile onto his ear. "Sherlock, mind helping me out? I've got a murder…"

* * *

After Sherlock had unceremoniously told him who the killer probably was over the phone, Lestrade had been more than excited to get this case over with and done. He practically jogged out of his office and ordered Donovan to look up the address of the suspect in question, pulling her out of her seat once they were done memorizing it.

The drive to the flat took longer than Lestrade expected; a mixture of another one of Donovan and Anderson's fights, road construction at the heart of London provided an extra ten minutes and a particularly angry coach driver provided an extra ten minutes.

When they arrived and kicked down the door, Lestrade and the forensics team found an empty flat. From outside, several crime scene investigators found bloody clothes and a knife from the dumpster in the alley. Sherlock was right (as always); they had found their killer.

That's where Lestrade found himself at the present moment. He was standing smack dab at the center of the living room watching his forensics team search for more evidence around the flat. What struck the inspector odd, however, was how empty it seemed – no picture frames, no trinkets or souvenirs… it looked almost boring; almost as if…

Nobody lived here.

Lestrade rushed inside the man's bedroom and yanked the closet door open, validating his fears.

The suspect had moved out.

* * *

_Bang, bang, bang!_

"Oh, goodness me!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, nearly dropping the cup of tea she had made herself. Whoever was at the door seemed desperate to get someone's attention. "Oh, dear, oh dear. I hope it's not _another one_."

She shuffled into her comfy slippers and stood up gingerly – her hip was acting up again. Best get some more herbal soothers, then.

"Alright, alright! I'm coming!" she shouted, hoping the person outside would stop torturing her door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and stared into the tired eyes of DI Gregory Lestrade.

"Sorry about your door, Mrs. Hudson, but this is an emergency," Lestrade spoke, walking into the hallway. He didn't need an invitation to step inside anymore; Lestrade visited the place often enough. He started climbing up the stairs.

"Oh, dear, has Sherlock done something wrong again?" Mrs. Hudson queried worriedly, following the inspector up the stairs. _Oh, when will the boy ever learn?_

"Nothing of that kind, don't worry. This is about a case," Lestrade reassured her.

He reached the top and stepped inside 221b. Lestrade glanced around for Sherlock or John. "Sherlock? John?" No sound. "Are they here, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, I could've sworn they were. And they never leave their door open when they're not around, so one of them must be here. Maybe Sherlock went out? John would know where he is; he must be taking a nap, poor dearie. He's been doing that a lot lately; Sherlock never lets him sleep. I heard him having a go at him just this morning." Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at the thought of her two lodgers. "I'll see if John's in his bedroom, shall I?"

"That would be lovely, yes, thank you," Lestrade said, absently looking at a large stain on the carpet. _Christ, is that blood?_

"Make yourself at home, dear," Mrs. Hudson trilled out as she climbed up the stairs to where she knew John's bedroom was.

She knocked on the oak door softly. "John?" Another three knocks. "John?"

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to John's bedroom and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was perfectly made and pristine like it always was.

_Ah! John must be out doing some errands. Sherlock must be in his bedroom, then. Is he taking a nap? Oh, how lovely, the exhaustion finally took its toll on him. I hope he's not too cranky._

Mrs. Hudson shuffled to the end of the hallway where Sherlock's bedroom was and did the same thing she did to John's door. After waiting and receiving no response from the other side, she hesitantly (God _knows_ what Sherlock could be doing) turned the knob and pushed open the door...

* * *

**Just one more chapter after this, I think! ^_^**


	8. Aftermath II

**ASDFGHJKL; I just found out Martin Freeman sang a song for a movie and it's the cutest thing ever! The song's called 'One Love' and it's incredibly catchy. ****I fangirled for thirty minutes and added the song to my iPod. :')**

**So. This is the last chapter. Hooray! It's the longest one, too. I don't know how it ended up like this.**

**Thank you so much for the reviews and the support. It meant a lot to me, and it was terrific fun writing this story. :)**

**Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created BBC!Sherlock. They, like millions of other people like me, are using Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's property for fanfiction.**

**Beta'd by _virginger _but not Brit-picked.**

**And just because I can: bingle-bongle, dingle-dangle; yickety-doo, yickety-ta; ping-pong, yipee-tappy-too-ta.**

* * *

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Inspector, I found them!"

DI Gregory Lestrade heard the elderly landlady from upstairs cooing like a mother would with her child. _Was Sherlock doing something cute?!_ Lestrade hurried up the stairs to check.

"Keep it down, young man, or you'll wake them up!" she whispered chidingly, but she motioned for him to walk faster towards her.

_Them?_

Lestrade stopped in his tracks and shamelessly stared at the sight in front of him. He didn't know how to explain it, and he had for the time-being forgotten all about the case. If Lestrade didn't know any better, he'd say that John and Sherlock were _spooning_ _on a bed_.

Sherlock was facing the left side of the room, one arm lazily draped over John. His other arm was outstretched and being used as a pillow for his friend's head. John, on the other hand, was curled up into a little ball. They were both lightly snoring.

From beside Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson muffled a squeal. She had her hands clasped under her chin and was staring at them fondly. She caught Lestrade's bemused expression. "Close your mouth, dearie, you're going to catch flies! Oh, do we have to wake them up? Poor dears didn't even hear me knock."

"Not yet, we won't," Lestrade said affirmatively and seriously. He whipped up his camera phone from his pocket. "Not when an opportunity like this comes up once in a lifetime."

"Oh, are those one of those little camera phone things? Can I have a copy?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking hopefully at the inspector.

"Sure thing, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade whispered back, snapping the perfect picture. _Perfect blackmail material right there._

A movement on the bed – Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade stopped moving. They didn't even breathe.

"Sh'lock?" John called out, surprised when he felt a warm body pressed against his back. _He must have climbed in while he was sleeping, _John thought._ Does he have to sleep so close to me? _One thing the former military captain learned from sleeping with Sherlock was that his lack of respect for someone's personal space when he was awake was multiplied ten times more when he was asleep. He subconsciously moved away from Sherlock.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled numbly.

"Were you just talking to me?" John asked.

Sherlock mumbled a negative string of incoherent noises.

"What? I – " John stopped talking, sitting up from his comfortable position. He then froze, staring at the two people in front of him. He was definitely wide awake now.

"Oh, no…" Mrs. Hudson started.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John whispered loudly, violently shaking the detective from his stupor. "Wake up!"

Sherlock groaned, facing the other way and trying to go back to sleep. John shoved him off the bed.

"_FOR GOD'S SAKE,_ _JOHN!_"

"Morning, sleepyheads – or afternoon, rather. Did you have a nice nap?" Lestrade greeted satisfyingly, enjoying Sherlock falling off the bed (he had been wanting to push him off of something for _years_). John had an interesting mixture of horror and desperation written across his face as he hopped off the bed like it was the plague. His eyes flitted between Lestrade and Sherlock, the former's smirk becoming increasingly wider. "As much as I'd like to find out more of what you've been doing here, we've got a killer to catch. The suspect moved out of his flat, and I'd like this case over and done with."

"Ugh, of course you wouldn't have gotten there in time. Am I right in assuming Donovan and Anderson are having another of their petty fights?" Sherlock scoffed and sat up on the floor, hair sticking out in a million directions. "How dull their lives must be." He picked himself up from the floor all the while glaring at his flatmate.

"Yes, well, not everyone can be like you, Sherlock," Lestrade answered. He mentally shuddered at the thought of two Sherlocks running around London."So are you coming or not?"

* * *

John Hamish Watson never did feel comfortable whenever people talked about him. He was very aware that there will never be a shortage of people who do. John knew exactly what they (and by they, he means the local detectives at New Scotland Yard and overeager journalists) were talking about – his relationship with his flatmate was far from ordinary, and he also knew that the bond he had with Sherlock was far stronger than the bonds brothers or sisters had with each other.

How strong the bond between said flatmate and the British Government is completely irrelevant.

So if one ever questioned his sexuality and whether or not he slept with Sherlock Holmes, he or she would get (along with an exasperated glare and/or a quick eye-roll) a quick negative response from the former RAMC Captain.

John Watson had never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Never ever ever. And never will, thank you very much. John Watson would _gladly_ attest to all of that.

That was where the good doctor found himself at the present moment – sitting in the back of a squad car, Sherlock Holmes beside him looking bored and Gregory Lestrade looking at him teasingly from the rearview mirror.

"So, are you guys a _thing_ now?" the inspector questioned. The thought of John and Sherlock fooling around on a bed suddenly become the forefront in his mind, and he fought to shove it (and a rather strong urge to gag) back into his brain's recesses.

"We're not actually gay, Greg," said John, hoping Lestrade would accept the explanation and leave it at that.

"Yes. Apparently, we just like sleeping with each other," Sherlock commented absentmindedly, staring out of the window.

John glared at Sherlock. "That's not helping any matters, mate."

"Wait, you mean you've slept with each other before?" Lestrade pointed at the both of them from the mirror. He was, quite frankly, shocked that he hadn't noticed.

"We haven't had _sex_ if that's what you mean, Lestrade." John's face had gone considerably paler as Sherlock answered the inspector's question. "There's a big difference between sleeping with each other and _sleeping with each other_. We've done the former on multiple occasions, yes, but never the latter. John's tendency to deny a possible homosexuality can testify to that."

"They don't count! They never mattered," the doctor added lamely. John could feel Sherlock freeze up beside him. John presumed it was because of his significant lack of eloquence that particular moment.

The inspector looked between the both of them in disbelief and amusement. "How many times?"

"Including that nap? Four," John replied. _Has it really been that many times? Good God._

Lestrade was silent. "...and during those times, did you just _happen _to fall on the bed together, or...?"

"Well, it's not like we slept together on _purpose_. There were... certain circumstances, and we felt that sleeping _beside each other_ would make things better... oh, God." John shut his eyes. It sounded much, _much_ better in his head. "Look, the point is this: we're not actually gay, and I highly doubt we'll ever go down that road. I like _women._ And Sherlock, well..." He wildly gestured towards Sherlock, looking pleadingly at Lestrade.

Lestrade caught his look. "Don't worry, mate. I believe ya," he told him, opting to refrain from adding '_doesn't mean I don't think it's weird_' at the end of the sentence. John looked relieved that the topic was now resolved. Sherlock still looked bored, albeit a little tense. Lestrade grinned. "Don't think I'm going to let this go, though."

"Didn't think you would." John rolled his eyes and buried his face in his hands as Lestrade let out a guffaw. The inspector gave John a teasing wink when the doctor looked up to scowl at him.

The car rolled to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock didn't waste any time getting out of the car and heading upstairs. John, meanwhile, stayed behind and looked at Lestrade. "Listen, mind not telling anyone about this?"

"It's not _me_ you should be worried about, John. Mrs. Hudson was in the room, too, you know."

John paled. "_Mrs. Hudson!_"

Lestrade laughed at the good doctor's discomfort. "Yeah. Listen, you up for a pint tomorrow? I'd do it tonight, but paperwork's gonna be sure _hell_ after this case. Not to mention Anderson and Donovan are still fighting."

"Yeah, sure," John muttered distractedly. _Damn it. __Mrs. Hudson!_

"Great. See you later, then, mate. Have fun with Sherlock tonight." The inspector gave him a flirtatious wink and a laugh before driving off. John stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds longer before turning around and following Sherlock to the flat.

By the time John arrived upstairs, Sherlock was already seated by the kitchen table poring over his experiment (_didn't I throw that toenail-yoghurt experiment months ago?_). Used to the lack of acknowledgement from his flatmate by now, John sat down on his usual chair and opened up his laptop.

Meanwhile, Sherlock tried his best to remain focused on his experiment but found it hard to do so. Thoughts and memories whirred tirelessly in his mind as he came to grips with what John had said in the cab.

_They never mattered._

It had startled Sherlock more than it should have, too, and he couldn't for the life of him understand the feelings he was possessing that moment. Sherlock would have liked nothing more than to delete the thought from his metaphorical hard drive, but a question that made his insides burn kept popping up to drag his attention back to itself.

_Does John value me less than I do him?_

Preposterous. Having grown up with only himself to confide in, Sherlock was used to being alone. It was a handful of cards he had learnt to deal with, so why had he become so bothered over what John had said? Why was it different this time around?

Because John was the only friend that mattered to him, Sherlock supposed. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were his friends, yes, but they weren't _John –_ they weren't the ones who knew things about his life that even his own brother didn't know. It would be a sad day indeed if Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson left his life, but a life without his blogger almost seemed unbearable for the detective. He had experienced it himself – the three years Sherlock spent away from 221b were one of the unhappiest in his life, running and hiding and leaving the one and only man who had truly accepted him and become his friend. Sherlock resolved to never experience that again.

So when Sherlock thought back to when John had said that the times they confided in each other _didn't matter_, he surprisingly realized that the feeling he was possessing was hurt. It is truly a hard pill to swallow when a friend you highly value doesn't reciprocate and/or chooses to remain oblivious. The consulting detective didn't know how to fathom this information – something he was _definitely_ not used to experiencing.

His thoughts are cut off by a loud outtake of breath from John Watson as he sat upon the seat across Sherlock. He offers the detective a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

"Alright, Sherlock, something's bothering you," John says, blowing on his own tea's surface. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock questioningly. "You may be an expert at reading other people, Sherlock, but I'm quite an expert at reading _you_, so I know when you're bothered about something you can't quite comprehend. Is this about feelings and sentiment? Maybe I can help?"

Sherlock frowned. He didn't recall having any tells. _How had John realized that he was bothered?_ "Nothing's bothering me, John," he lied.

It was John's turn to frown. Sherlock had never lied to him before (not counting lies that brought about danger, embarrassment, anger or exasperation upon the doctor, anyhow). The detective was always honest towards him, so the issue troubling Sherlock must be about him. "Hey, there's no use lying to me about it, Sherlock. You can tell me. Did I do something wrong?"

Sherlock regarded him carefully, but chose to remain silent. John was going to have to figure it out all on his own.

The soldier browsed through his head (lovingly dubbed his 'Mind Junk Shop' by Sherlock Holmes as it was, in his words, 'filled with useless things with a dash of something useful here and there if you looked close enough') and recalled what he had done or said in the past two hours. There wasn't a lot to remember, really – the only slightly significant event that had occurred was the dreaded talk with Lestrade, and even then it was the usual. Sherlock sitting still in the cab, explaining what had happened (eloquently); him panicking in the cab, also explaining what had happened (not so eloquently). John remembered Sherlock tensing up when he told Lestrade the events didn't count or mat –

_Oh. _John thought. That was certainly possible – highly improbable, yes, but possible.

_When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

If anyone had ever told John that he'd end up apologizing to the great consulting detective for hurting his feelings, the doctor would've thought them mental. Sherlock was always so detached from his emotions – it took a lot for the consulting detective to let some of it go. John then realized with a start that for someone to get hurt by others, he or she had to care deeply about them first and value their opinion. Knowing the depth of loyalty and love that hid behind Sherlock's mask made John inwardly smile, and (not for the first time) he sees more of the good man than the great one.

The doctor wished he hadn't had to cause Sherlock some mild distress before seeing it, though.

"I'm sorry for what I said in the car, Sherlock." John said. He couldn't help but feel rejuvenated at the revelation he had just made, however.

Sherlock remained stoic and silent.

"I didn't mean it _that_ way. It was an honest slip of the tongue. You're my best friend, Sherlock; of course you matter," John reassured. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly. "And don't get me wrong, mate, I like spending time with you; I would just prefer it _outside_ the bedroom."

John thought back to the four encounters they had had so far and remembered the accidental kicks (Mycroft wasn't lying), hardcore cuddles (Sherlock slept like a leech) and slaps to the face (fetch me my revolver, John!) he had suffered at the hands of the lanky detective. "I hate sleeping with you, mate – you're impossible to sleep with; did you know that?"

Sherlock tried to hide a smile. "My brother may have mentioned that fact once, yes."

John regarded his current situation. He was discussing _bedroom antics_ with _Sherlock bloody Holmes_. John started laughing at the absurdity. Sherlock followed suit and quickly started chuckling as well, baritone voice mixing in with John's husky laughter. Each look they shared as they laughed sprouted another fresh bout of chuckles reverberating around the room. In the end, Sherlock ended up leaning backwards against air on his seat while John bent forward, head resting on his open palm.

"Christ, Sherlock," John said, still chortling. "No wonder people think we're gay – just look at us!"

Sherlock scrunched up his face and did a perfect imitation of Greg Lestrade. "So, are you guys a _thing_ now?"

"Wait, you mean you've slept with each other before?" John retaliated, exaggerating a shocked face.

The two burst out laughing again. They were interrupted by a knock on their door.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson shuffled into the room armed with a platter of biscuits. She gave her lodgers a motherly smile reminiscent of one whose child was going on their first date. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything! I just thought you'd like a few biscuits before going to bed."

Sherlock and John pretended not to hear the sly undertone in her voice as she wiped her hands on her apron innocently.

"Have you got any milk?" she asked.

"No, we've run out," John answered, glaring disbelievingly at Sherlock. _Why do we always run out?_

"Oh, don't worry, dear. I think I've got some in the fridge. Let me just get it, I'll be back in a tick," replied Mrs. Hudson. She gave them a faint, giddy squeal before heading downstairs.

John waited until the footsteps died down before speaking. "I don't know about you, Sherlock, but I'm not telling her we're not actually gay," he whispered urgently.

"What makes you think _I'll_ tell her?"

"Well, one of us is gonna have to tell her."

"You're by far the best candidate."

"Well, you're a git and I suffer on a daily basis because of you; you could at _least_ do this for me, Sherlock."

"That's hardly a valid reason."

"It is for me. You tell her!" John gave his flatmate a look, hoping that it would convince him to do what he says. Sherlock looked ready to retort, so John gave him an offer he knew Sherlock would consider. "I'll release all limits on your experiments for a week."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Then they narrowed. "This is _Mrs. Hudson_ we're talking about, John. She's probably planning our nonexistent wedding as we speak! I'm going to need a lot more than that."

_Damn. _"You can play the violin at any time." Sherlock's eyes widened imperceptibly. John knew Sherlock was on the verge of accepting his offer and gave the final proverbial nail on the coffin. "_And_ you can have one cigarette."

The consulting detective's breath hitched.

_Gotcha._

"I'm back with the milk, boys!" Mrs. Hudson huffed as she reached the landing for the second time. She looked happily between the two men as she placed the bottle of milk on the kitchen table beside the plate.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I think I'll be heading off to bed now. I've had a rough day. I'm sure Sherlock would be more than _delighted_ to eat with you, however." John gave Sherlock a saccharine smile as he said so. His eyes relayed a completely different message, though. _Break her heart and I'll break your spine. And leave me some biscuits and milk, will you?_

"Oh, of course, dearie. You've had a long day, haven't you?" the landlady tutted at him. "You have a good night, now."

"Yes, John, have a good night. Don't stay up too late; I'll be joining you later." Sherlock said, feigning domesticity. The detective gave him a little flirtatious wave. John was horrified. Mrs. Hudson looked ready to faint.

_Dear God, the bastard._

But John found that he wouldn't change his life for the world.

* * *

**a.) I'm not gonna lie. When I first started writing the story, I didn't know how I'd end it _at all_. It was spontaneous all throughout, so I'm sorry if I've disappointed some.**

**b.) The thing about valuing friends more than they do for you is quite real and personal. I've experienced it.**

**c.) There's a quote in here loosely based on a passage from "The Three Garridebs" in here. Cookies to the people who know which one it is!**

**d.) There's a paraphrased quote from "The Sign of the Four" in here as well. It's a bit obvious.**

**Huzzah! The End!  
Please leave a review?**


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